


Winning

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 09:19:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title: Winning<br/>Prompt: Olympics fic for Aeryn, on Tumblr<br/>Rating: R<br/>Genre: AU, present day; Sirius is an olympic swimmer, Remus is a gymnast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winning

He’s always been proud of what he can do. People joke about flying; about aeroplanes, helicopters, or, madder still, throwing yourself through the air with nothing but a parachute’s slim chance of survival. Remus doesn’t like to fly.

He claps his hands together, fine white powder coming off them in clouds. This is the moment; hundreds of people, thousands of people, millions. Watching.

He shifts his feet, one by one, waiting for it to start. Rubs each sole against the floor.  Everything is breath, is silence, is the heaving of his own shoulders either side of his head as he squeezes his hands into fists one final time and then, taking one single step back, is going; launches himself down the strip of blue, faster and faster until he hits the springboard, moves and is  _up –_ his hands touch the vault, quicker than lightning, come down flat for only a second before he’s thrown himself in the air again, breath held, spinning, his legs tight together as he turns. And then, again, he’s on his feet.

This, normally, is what Remus calls flight; in the air under all your own power, reigned in, controlled. This is beauty, is what he has given his life to.

His foot slips as he lands and he gives up all pretense. He curses. The illusion of the filled gynasium, his fantasy, disappears, and all is silence; he’s alone.

He stands up straight again and kicks at the mat frustratedly. It’s early, now; or late. Earlier than it should be, for practising something that should be happening in just a few  _hours._

Breathing exercises are second nature, but they’re starting to fail him, and once they do entirely he’ll have nothing else to turn to.

Sweat soaks the back of his uniform; he smooths his hair down, wet with perspiration, against his head, and draws that same hand across his forehead, his lips, breathing hard. This will never do. The silent gym echoes back at him, his solitary curse seeming to go on for ever, not his voice now but someone elses’.

He stomps his way angrily to the side of the gym, picks up his bag and his towel, and slings them over his shoulder to slope off to the showers.

_Fuck._

xxx

Sirius doesn’t get much time off, but when he does, he spends most of it here.

He’s not embarrassed by himself; it was unnerving, when he started out, to get people pointing at him. At first he thought he was being recognised, but he soon realised it wasn’t swimming geeks who were pointing him out to their friends in the cinema, or at the gym, or now, in the stands as they waited for the gymnastics to begin. No, instead, the people who nodded and giggled and whispered to their friends when they saw him weren’t complimenting his lap time, or his form; they didn’t care what he did for a living; they didn’t care what he was doing here, even. Mostly, they were looking at his arse. And that idea suited him much more than being ‘famous’.

He doesn’t ever wish to be invisible; he thinks, sometimes smugly, that it would be a bit of a sin for his hard work to be invisible, anyway. And it  _is_  hard work;  he spends fourteen hours, at  _least,_ in the pool a week, and all that time makes a person feel like he deserves a bit of time off. So, at the moment at least, he comes here.

It didn’t start out this way. He had no interest whatsoever in anyone elses’ events when he arrived, couldn’t give any kind of toss about weightlifting or track or even diving; but the gymnasts started to catch his eye in a big way once he actually  _saw_ them, and one afternoon between sessions (read: getting shouted at by his trainer for his attitude) he took himself along, alone, to the gymnastics. Technically he wasn’t supposed to be here, but being one of the athletes (one of the fit ones, at least) definitely had its perks.

Lupin didn’t catch his eye at first; just another lithe, brown-haired boy covering his hands in chalk dust. It wasn’t his body, really that had turned this thing into an obsession (though that helped); it was his  _face._ He was big-nosed, slender jawed; handsome, in a Fitzgerald-y kind of way; but that wasn’t quite it, either.

It was his face when he began. When he finished. The kind of single-minded determination that you would think was on the face of every olympian, but actually, Sirius had found, only existed in very few. Remus – so he’d googled the guy. So sue him – had that determination in his eyes from twenty paces. It burned in him, and his disappointment, his self-hatred, was painfully clear when he fucked up.

Sirius didn’t know the difference between fucking up and doing well, when it came to gymnastics; swimming (racing, at least) was simple. You get there faster than the others? You win! You’re last? You lose. End of. Basically. This was entirely different, with people throwing themselves in the air and spinning and losing their footing; he thought they were all incredible, couldn’t imagine what would constitute a  _bad_ turn apart from when it was Remus’ turn; and then, it became painfully evident.

He’d run – fast – all determination and heat, and then do something entirely amazing by flinging himself into the air, land in a way that Sirius assumed was perfect and then his face would say it all; it would drop as if from a great height, and his shoulders would slump as he stepped off the mat. It was as if his entire body became the physical embodiment of  _bugger._

And, speaking of which, Sirius has realised that he would very much like to. Bugger him, that is. Or the other way around. It didn’t really matter, all he knows is that for the past few days all that has been on his mind is winning, and Remus, and a combination of the two. He has a strange fantasy where one of these days he would step out of the pool, skin flushed with adrenaline, and he would look up into the stands and there would be Remus, clapping, with those brown, determined eyes fixed on  _him_.

The only problem is that he’s confident the guy has absolutely no idea who the hell he is. And as the week is wearing on and the games are starting to come to a head, he’s getting more and more determined to change that fact.

Xxx

Remus’ bag is on his shoulders, an old sweatshirt over them, hands clenched around the strap. Another day, another dismal failure; for all his trainer’s efforts to console him, the words are hollow. He’s coming back from the gym after practice again, determined, for once, to get some sleep.

He rubs his shoulder with his opposite hand, trying to work the crick out of it; it’s an old wound. He’s got scars; accidents. Not many, but enough to make him thankful for his uniform, and his survival. There are days he’s  _more_  than grateful for his uniform; that afterwards no one has the heart to discourage his baggy hoodies and loose jogging bottoms. You’re a  _winner_ , they say, and that is all he needs; but now he isn’t one, isn’t winning, isn’t even  _placing,_ nearly, and the frankly excessive practice is only making it worse. He needs to calm down but there is nowhere to go, no one to talk to who isn’t talking about the fucking games, and alcohol isn’t an option. He resigns himself to another night of lying under cool sheets, his own skin too hot, itching against the covers as ‘what-ifs’ race through his mind and his palms grow sweaty under the weight of his own self-judgement. Today; he slipped. He never slipped in training, never dreamed of it, but today, at the worst time, he did.

His shoulder twinges again as he uses one hand to push on the door to the hotel, bringing in his shoulder to push it fully open. He waves off the concierge, who is only trying to help, and tries to make his way up the stairs to his room when a voice behind him calls his name.

“Remus?”

He turns. The caller is his age, a little bit shorter than him, with longish, dark hair, grinning absurdly even as he opens his mouth to reply. “Look, if you’re from the press, you can leave it.” He’s so tired. The caller looks deeply offended, and walks over.

“I’m not press, I’m a swimmer. Team GB as well, see?” he gestures at his shirt, and Remus frowns, having taken him for a tourist.

“Oh. Hi.”

“Sirius Black.” He says, extending a hand, and Remus takes it briefly.

“Remus.” He says in return, yawning, his eyes watering. Maybe he’ll get some sleep tonight, after all – he can live in hope. Sirius lets his arms hang at his sides, then puts them in his pockets.

“I’ll let you go in a minute. I just wanted to say, I come down to the gymnastics to watch you. Every day. You’re really very good.”

Remus laughs bitterly. “I’m glad someone thinks so.” He smiles, though. Sometimes it’s nice to know what ‘outsiders’ think. At least he knows he  _looks_  good when he’s fucking everything up, if this man’s trailing eyes are anything to go by.

“No, really. You’re doing great.” Sirius nods as he’s speaking, as if that will affirm it further. “Look, I was wondering if I could buy you at drink, maybe?”

Remus stops, turned towards the stairs, and looks at him properly. The drink, at this point, sounds much more desirable than the company – but he isn’t allowed one, and he’s too exhausted to want the other. He smiles indulgently and it comes out patronising. “I can’t. Can’t drink, can’t – anything else.” He yawns again at the end of the word and Sirius raises his eyebrows.

“Well.” He says, apparently surprised. “If you ever want to – anything else.” He says incredulously, and Remus nods tiredly and lifts a hand to wave as he goes up the stairs.

“Thanks for the support, though. I appreciate it.”

Sirius nods as he turns to go. “No problem.” He says quietly, and Remus is too tired to read the expression on his face. He drags himself up the stairs, legs burning, feet aching, heavy. He forces himself to take the stairs, even though it will hurt more, and when he finally reaches his hotel room and throws himself bodily onto the bed, he’s almost asleep already.

Almost.

Xxx

It’s nothing, now, and it’s strange; he tears through the water for two hours every morning, timing himself, sometimes alone, sometimes with his trainer, streaking across the blue surface in the ridiculous standard-issue speedo, for practice.

This morning was a good morning, despite last night’s rejection; he got a good breakfast, got down to the pool nice and early and found its surface blissfully still, not a ripple to disturb him, and threw himself into it with actual enthusiasm for the first time in a long while. The gym complex was where most of the GB team were training, so today must be a busy one, games-wise, for the pool not to be full of thrashing, competitive bodies. There is a place, a sort of zen place, that arrives when he’s alone and swimming, where he can reach inside himself and realise – oh, right.  _That’s_ why I do this.  _That’s_ why it’s worth it, and he reaches it easily this morning.

He heaves himself out of the pool after a good two hours, looking forward to a day that’s mostly empty; he’s competing today, yes, but later. For the next few hours he’s got nothing ahead of him, training done; he’ll go for lunch in the city maybe, keep his head down, go carefully. Competing makes him a bit of a loner; in the pool he’s alone, none of that ‘with your country’ crap – he competes for himself, often  _against_ himself, and it’s easier that way. He knows other swimmers, perhaps better swimmers, who have rivalries and enemies and vendettas, but honestly to Sirius that sort of thing just doesn’t  _work._ He thinks smugly that he’s a lover, not a fighter, in the end, and makes himself smile.

Truth be told, he’s a little (okay, a lot) disappointed by the gymnast turning him down. He knew he was one of those headcases who took it all incredibly seriously from the off, but he never considered it might mean a  _no._ Sirius has never been told  _no_ in his life, except by his mother, and look where that ended her; they no longer speak.

His feet slap wetly against the tiles as he heads for the showers, skin flushed, beads of water running down his smooth legs, down the small of his back, from his hair, once he pulls the ridiculous swimming cap off. He enters the shower block and  is, not for the first time, deeply impressed by how posh the olympian’s hotel is. Sirius lives close enough, theoretically, to get down here for the games and still live at home, but after he heard where they’d be staying there was no way to get him to slum it. The shower block was huge; down one wall there were hundreds of shower-heads, gleaming silver; the tiles on the floors were bleach-spotless, and there were even hundreds of cubicles for people to shower in private.  _Not bad,_ he thought, frowning appreciatively at the block before he turned on one of the showers and stuck his head under it, blissful against the red-hot water, completely, blessedly alone.

He stands there for a minute or more, breathing shallowly to calm down after his training, letting his head hang and for the spray to hit the back of his neck, water running rivulets against his face. If there is anything being an athlete has taught him, it’s being thankful for a shower. People often assume that because he’s a swimmer he doesn’t need it, but, he thinks, they can kindly fuck right off; some mornings, the thought of his after-practice shower is the only thing that can get him out of bed.

He leans his head against the tiles in front of him, and then, hearing a soft, understated cough from across the block, raises his head.

Speak of the devil. Think of the devil, actually. There is the blessed gymnast, in tank top and white-striped jogging bottoms, face red, the top almost see-through from sweat. He’s got one of the  _Team GB_ branded towels over one shoulder, and nods embarrassedly once he realises it’s Sirius. Remus lifts a hand in greeting and walks over, undressing down to his pants without shame and turning on the shower-head one down from Sirius’. He laughs awkwardly.

“’Morning. I didn’t expect anyone to be here.”

Sirius looks at him and grins. “Neither did I.” He goes quiet, at a loss for what to say, and both of them stand under their respective showers, silent. This is awkward. It really, really is. Sirius curses himself (not for the first time) for trying to shit where he eats. Remus coughs in that same strange, careful way again.

“Good practice?” he asks kindly, and Sirius turns and nods.

“Alright. It’s better when there’s no one in the pool.”

“I know what you mean. Except, you know – in the gym.”

“Mm.”

Silence.  And, then, “Sirius, is it?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice to meet you.” But Remus’ eyes aren’t on his face, and Sirius finds himself strangely embarrassed under that warm, appreciative stare.

“You, too.” He turns off the shower, picks up his towel from the rack behind him and slings it over his shoulder with attempted nonchalance, but his hands are shaking. In light of this, the shower  _probably_ should have been a cold one. As he makes his way to the changing-room, he hears Remus’ voice, again.

“Will I see you at the semi-finals?”

“Yep!” He calls back through the doors, and leaves Remus alone in the huge shower-block. He’s sweating; wet from the shower but sweating, and thankful that the changing rooms are empty because he’s also hard, and it’s obvious in his ridiculous  _GB_ speedo. His hands, his arms – everything shakes as he fumbles with his keys to open the locker and pulls his clothes into his trembling arms. It’s like he’s been racing again, something powering through his veins, not the normal slow, quick burn of lust that he’s used to. There was something in Remus’ eyes just then; something similar to what Sirius had seen as he competed, and all he could say for it was  _Damn._

xxx

“You lied.” Remus says, offhand, the next day when they meet again in the shower block. Remus is an early riser, he’s unsurprised to find; he comes in far earlier than Sirius, trains for longer, is always red-raw with exhaustion when he finishes. If he’s not mistaken, he saw Remus going to train the night before, too; for all he knows, the twat hasn’t even been to bed yet. There’s humor in his voice when he speaks, though.

“About what?” He retorts, eyeing Remus sideways through the spray of the shower, and Remus isn’t looking at him. He’s smiling, though; Sirius can read it in his jawline, his head turned up towards the shower, the long, slender line of his throat outlined against the water. He swallows, despite himself.

“You said you’d come and watch. Actually, if I’m not mistaken, you said you came to watch me  _every day._ ”

Sirius laughs. “Sorry. I had a race.”

“Really?” Remus asks him, interested. “How did it go?”

“Alright. We placed.” He shrugs. Remus looks scandalised by his nonchalance. “What about you? Did I miss much?”

Remus frowns in return, no longer joking. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

Silence. Again. Sirius wills it to end. “Good practice, though?”

“Mm.” Remus says in return, and in the quiet Sirius finds his eyes drawn to his back; there are scars there, welts of flesh carved out and then healed, scars from cuts and bruises, scars with dots either side from sewing them up. He doesn’t look war-torn, but Sirius doesn’t envy him them, either. It’s not easy to break a bone in the water, but apparently if you’re a gymnast, it’s  _very_ easy indeed to risk it. Remus catches his eye. “It’s a shame. I was looking for you.” He says, trying to inject levity after the downer he’s put on the conversation, and there’s a hard edge underneath it; Sirius doesn’t look at his eyes but he knows that look is there, the one he’s so deeply interested by now, the one he dreamt about last night. Remus moves out of his shower to the one next to Sirius’. He leans on the wall.

“Thinking of taking me up on that drink, then?” He says, trying to curb the ridiculous quake in his voice, how very conscious he is of the tall, slim body now sidling closer to his.

“M’not allowed.” Remus says slowly, voice much lower than it was before, one of his tan shoulders pressed against the white tile, his left hand holding his right elbow, slumped against the wall with his eyes absolutely  _raking_  Sirius’ body. Sirius glances up, and – yes. The look is there. It’s unmistakeable.

“Me neither, to be honest.” He laughs. “It was mostly an excuse. To get you alone.”

“Mm. I figured as much.”

“Yeah?” He looks up. Remus nods. He shifts away from the wall, comes closer, steps under Sirius’ shower and Sirius lets him. They’re painfully close, now, and even though Sirius knows what’s about to happen – this isn’t his first time on tour – he’s breathing heavily between them. Remus leans close to his ear.

“You know, I was really disappointed in you.” He says, low, and Sirius is embarrassingly hard, now, has been pretty much since they started talking, and Remus  _clearly_  knows it, and Sirius can’t help it; he laughs. It’s almost silly that this is so much like he’s imagined. It’s foolish. Right? Yes. Entirely. “You wouldn’t be the first.” He mutters shakily in response, and then there aren’t any other words, really, because Remus has slipped a hand between them and is rubbing the heel of it against Sirius’ cock through the speedo, and they are pressed together and Sirius is walking back towards the wall and oh –  _jesus,_ he can’t  _breathe._ He arches up against Remus’ hand, panting heavily even now, and Remus looks surprised but recovers quickly; leans down to mouth against his neck, hand still working at him through the fabric. Sirius skates a hand up his chest, hovers it over him, just barely touching. He’s _shaking._

“Wait. Shit.” Too fast. He’s had closer encounters, and known a person less, but that’s not what he means; Remus’ hand goes slower but it’s still almost too much, keeping him just on the edge and he feels guilty that he’s not doing anything in return because his hands have stopped working and his pulse is positively rattling in his chest. 

He breathes, hard, against Remus’ shoulder. “Wait.” Remus slows even further, painfully so, and Sirius finally steadies his hand enough to slide it down again, feeling every muscle as he does, every raised line of flesh that is a scar, and pulls Remus’ soaking wet pants down over his arse, letting his cock spring free and press against his thigh. The shower’s turned off – it’s on a timer, he supposes – and Sirius experiences a sudden, strange, half-clouded moment of clarity for it before Remus puts a hand inside his trunks and clarity becomes, again, only distantly related to him. “ _Fuck.”_ He whispers, and feels Remus smile against the skin of his shoulder. Remus moves to stand between his legs, pressing him hard against the tile, and he arches his head back when Remus moves his hand just slightly, a long, sweeping stroke from base to tip. “Okay.” His words aren’t really working; this gasp will have to do. He doesn’t want to fuss with this crap, though; doesn’t want a handjob in the fucking showers that they can forget about the next day, that they can pretend didn’t happen.

 He manages to croak, as Remus moves his hand agonisingly slowly, “Remus. Listen.” Remus makes a noise of assent, head still against his shoulder. “I want you to fuck me.” He feels Remus’ body tense against him. “Please.” He adds, in some kind of odd, misguided politeness and Remus laughs, and he laughs too, probably because the sentence is so ridiculous, but really, he can’t think of any other way to say it.

Remus continues to laugh for a second, hand still moving slowly on his cock, keeping him on the edge, until he whispers against Sirius, “I haven’t got anything-“ Sirius interrupts him.

“There’s vaseline in my bag. By the wall.” He says, and then adds, embarrassedly, when Remus lifts his head and looks at him, incredulous, “I didn’t bring it for – I’m not weird. It’s for swimming.” Remus nods, still looking amused, and lets him go.

 It takes all of Sirius’ strength not to slump where he stands; he stays there awkwardly, pants rucked around his thighs, hands pressed flat to the tile behind him, trying to regulate his breathing as Remus digs in his bag, finds the pot of vaseline, and sticks two fingers into it, coating them liberally. Sirius can’t help it – he breathes in, sharp, and Remus looks at him, and grins, and returns as Sirius slips the stupid fucking speedo off and drops it; Remus presses them chest-to-chest before anything can change too much between them (not that Sirius, honestly, would stop now, even if the ceiling caved in or the fire alarm went off, or – well, for anything, really). He looks Sirius in the eyes, greasy hand hovering anxiously next to them.

“Are you absolutely sure?” Quiet. His brown eyes search Sirius’ face and Sirius grins, half-endeared by this weirdly sentimental change of heart, half laughing because _jesus christ_   _of course he’s sure._

“Yes.” He manages, and Remus nods, and then pauses.

“How do you want to do this?” he asks carefully.

Sirius thinks briefly about the mechanics and then says, embarrassed, “I want to see your eyes.”

Remus is quiet, but he smiles, and reaches underneath Sirius, pressing one finger slowly inside him and then the other, when Sirius strains against him and gasps,  _It’s alright_ against his skin. They’re so close now that Remus’ cock is pressed flush between them, and after working his fingers slowly, carefully inside Sirius, stretching, practiced, it is almost a relief for him to pull away a little and lift him just slightly; just high enough against the wall that Remus can push the warm weight of his cock inside him, and Sirius, gasping – has it been a while? No, not really, but it feels like it has – can grip a hand in his hair and see those eyes and almost, almost, come just from the look in them, that same determination, except, instead of  _I am going to do a perfect handspring triple twist,_ it was  _I am going to fuck you, Sirius Black._

His mind goes white when Remus, holding him on the wall with one hand on his hip and another under his arm, starts to move inside him, panting heavily with the effort; after all this build up neither of them is likely to last long, but Remus gives it his best anyway, mouthing against Sirius’ collarbone again, his nose pressing against the flesh, biting down gently every time he lifts Sirius slightly higher on the wall and then pushes into him again, harder, his forehead slipping against Sirius’ wet skin.

He gets shakier, more desperate, with each push, pressing him harder against the tiles until finally he mutters, “Oh, Christ.”, onto Sirius’ shoulder and comes, fucking him through it, still measured, hands shaking as he grips tightly against Sirius’ hip. He looks up at Sirius as he does it and those eyes are all Sirius needs to follow suit, because he’s just barely been holding on the whole time anyway, and he tries to swallow what is unmistakeably the most embarrassing moan to ever escape him as Remus thrusts into him two, three more times before all but collapsing against his chest and pulling carefully out, lowering Sirius to his feet, the whole thing seeming suddenly quickly over as the both of them breathe against one another’s bodies, the noise echoing off the tiles now that Sirius’ ears are working again and he can actually  _hear_ over the sound of his own rushing blood.

After what seems like an eternity, Sirius murmurs onto his skin, too exhausted to move,  “Do you, er. Do you fancy doing this again sometime?” 

Remus laughs, at first, and then says “Definitely.”

xxx

“You lost, then.”

Remus shrugs. They’ve found themselves a good distance from the hotel and the stadium but he doesn’t really care; Sirius insists that the place they’re at has ‘The best paninis you’ve ever tasted, Remus, honestly’ but it’s ash in his mouth, and he can’t tell the difference.

Even with Sirius in the stands – even feeling, for once, like a fucking  _champion_ after the incident in the showers (and all their subsequent encounters) he’d fluffed the whole thing and was out of the fucking competition, and his blood boiled just thinking about it, cast into horror by the seemingly total unfairness of the whole fucking thing. He picks at the sandwich half-heartedly as Sirius wolfs down his own.

“Well, christ, don’t sugar coat it.” He says moodily, aware that he’s being a dick, and not really caring at this point. Sirius shrugs.

“Sorry. I just mean – why does it matter so much to you?” he says, voice muffled by the food in his mouth. Remus looks up at him.

“Look,  I don’t mean to be blunt, but it’s the  _fucking olympic games._ ”

Sirius shrugs. “And?” He puts the sandwich, which he’s been holding with both hands, down on the table they’re sitting at. “It’s not the end of the fucking world, is it? Nothing’s going to happen to you. You win some, you lose some. There’s a reason that saying exists. It’s  _true_.”

“I just can’t believe I’ve worked so hard and it ends here.”

Sirius laughs gently. “Well, now you’re just being melodramatic. Since when is your career over? Come on. We were hardly going to take gold anyway, everyone knows we’re only good at the sit-down sports. Just look at our swimming team – we’re good, yeah. But we haven’t got any illusions about beating the chinese.”

“I just don’t really see-“ Remus fumbles for the words. “I just don’t know whether I can face going on with it, now. This is the big time. And now it’s over.” He shrugs. “It just hurts that the world was watching, and I failed them.”

“Don’t go on, if you don’t want to. If you don’t  _love it_ , why would you even do it?” Sirius looks at him contemplatively. “You do love it, right? You enjoy it?”

Remus considers it. He’s actually never thought about it before, but – “Yes. Yes, I love it. It’s brilliant. It’s just things like this that make it feel shit, I suppose.”

Sirius leans back in his chair triumphantly. “Well, there you go. It’s not the sport, it’s your attitude. I’m not saying  _care less_ , I’m just saying don’t let it define you _._ Because it doesn’t need to.”

Remus makes a noise of frustration and hunches himself inward, over the table, pulling bits of bread off the panini and flicking them onto his plate. “I suppose I can get fat if I want, now, at least.” 

“That’s the spirit.”

xxx

He’s never watched Sirius swim before – they’ve known eachother almost two weeks, now, and he thinks it’s strange that he’s never come to watch, but there’s a first time for everything. And – wow. What a first time this is.

He’s always been ‘into’ sport, particularly the olympics; aside from himself the games were a tradition in his family, a dream for all of them that one day his parents might sit around that screen and see their son on it, and in the process all of them ended up getting quite invested in the events, swimming included – but seeing it on the television and actually being here are two entirely different beasts. 

He watches, smelling chlorine as Sirius tears through the water, streamlined and smooth, the water making barely a ripple as he speeds along through it, under it, reaching the end of the pool so quick Remus can barely believe it, then ducking underwater and pushing off like an otter to reach the other side. It’s – it’s amazing. It’s easy to forget, when he laughs and makes stupid jokes and farts in bed that Sirius is actually an athlete, and olympian, but here it is all too easy to believe. But, even so, Sirius doesn’t win.

He wonders, watching, how anyone can have the strength of will to do that; to  _lose,_ essentially, and still go on. Because Sirius is finished now – out of the games – but there’s a grin on his face when he gets out of the pool, even if he looks a little bit disappointed, and when he glances into the stands at Remus’ watching face he grins even wider, and his hand twitches at his side, a subtle wave. Remus doesn’t understand – suspects he never will – but the rush of pride and admiration that he feels in that second for Sirius makes him applaud, embarrassed, but happy.

He still feels anxious – still hasn’t phoned his mum about it, unable to bear her disappointment – but the moment offers him respite, shields him from the reality of his defeat.

Maybe, he thinks, one day, he can be a little bit more like Sirius; have the failure roll off him like water, and come out the other side still shining.

xxx

The closing ceremony was a blur; Remus is finally sleeping properly, for the first time in what he says has been weeks, but Sirius has been making sure to take up all his other spare time. On the last night, in Remus’ hotel room, he finds himself kissing the underside of Remus’ slim arm.

“What now, then?” he asks slowly, unsure if he wants to know the answer. Remus leans up from his pillow and looks at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean-“ he wishes suddenly that he’d never said a word. “The games. They’re ending, I mean. Over, pretty much. Hometime.”

Remus smiles easily, less caustic and highly-strung now he’s actually had some sleep. “I don’t know. Home. A bath. Try to forget this ever happened. Start practicing again in a few weeks. You?”

“That’s not really what I was asking.”

“Sorry.” He takes his arm, which Sirius has kissed, and moves it lazily to tangle their fingers together. “Well, you’ve got my number. We don’t live that far from eachother.” He’s being ambiguous, and Sirius crawls up the bed to lie on his side next to him, letting go of his hand as he moves and then taking it again once he’s settled, toying with his fingers.

“And I’ll come and see you? You haven’t got – I don’t know, an extremely flexible boyfriend waiting for you at home?”

“Nope.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Comes with the job. Why, have you?”

“Nope.”

Remus laughs, staring up at the ceiling, and squeezes his hand. “It’s easy, then. Come see me. We’ll – we can do more of the same.”

“Is it easy, though? You’ve got training, I’ve got mine, we’ll-“

“Sirius, please. Shut up.” He’s joking, but when Sirius leans over to look at him his eyes are half-sober. “I thought you were the optimist? It will work out. What happens, happens.”

“Alright.” Sirius says dubiously. “If you say so.” He kissed Remus’ cheekbone. They haven’t actually kissed, yet- the timing never seems right. They’ve kissed during sex, of course, sloppily, gasping into eachothers’ mouths, missing eachother half the time, distracted by more pressing matters – but Sirius has started dreaming about that instead, the fantasy of a perfect moment, and he worries that by tomorrow he won’t get it.

He doesn’t take it now – not when they’re talking about leaving. Tonight, maybe. Some other time, he tells himself. When the moment strikes. For now, he’s happy kissing Remus’ chest, working his way down, that body soft and pliable under his willing hands.

xxx

 

“So we’ll-“ he stops. “Are you sure I’ve got your right number?”

“We tested it last night.” Remus smiles, that mocking, ‘I-know-something-you-don’t-know’ look in his eyes, the one that infuriates Sirius so much. They’re standing by Remus’ car now, their things all packed away, following the droves of people out of london and home (or, in Sirius’ case, taking the tube through london, and home). “Well. Okay. I’ve got to be getting on, if I’m going to beat the traffic, alright? I’ll call you.”

Sirius hesitates. He holds his phone in one hand pointlessly, and nods. “Alright. Cool. I’ll – I’ll see you soon, yeah?” he steps forward awkwardly to hug him, and squeezes him tightly. “You did well, you know. Just – in case you weren’t aware.”

Remus laughs like he was making a joke, but nods. “Alright. Say it enough and maybe I’ll start believing you.”

“That’s the plan.” He steps away, the air seeming suddenly too cold, and shifts from foot to foot. “Well, er. Yes. I’ll see you, then?”

“Yes.” Remus says evenly, jangling his keys in his pocket, leaning against his car. He stands there, waiting. “Are you honestly not-“ he is cut off because in that moment Sirius’ embarrassment overwhelms him and he steps forward, cups Remus’ jaw with both hands and kisses him, firmly, on the lips. He draws away and Remus laughs. “I was just going to ask.”

“I’ll call you  _tonight.”_ Sirius says, just as firm as the kiss, and Remus nods in response and kisses him again.

“Good. You’d better.” He kisses him a third time, eyes closed, and Sirius, for one incredible moment has the feeling that all this has been a dream – some awful, extended epic of a dream, and he’ll wake up at the beginning of the games again and Remus won’t even exist – but when he pulls away he’s still there, still firm, still smiling. And he lets Remus open the door to his car, lets him half get in and then can’t bear it, and kisses him again, over the top of the car door, and then steps away, even more embarrassed.

“Sorry.” He’s a little bit mortified by himself, but Remus doesn’t really seem to mind. “Tonight, then.” 

“ _Yes_.” Remus says, mockingly, and he finally gets all the way into the car and starts it up. Sirius moves out of the way as Remus starts the car and moves out of the park, waving sarcastically out of the window, taking the piss, but Sirius – he can’t fight the feeling that somehow, in all of this, he’s a winner. That they both are. He’s  _won_. 


End file.
